That night was to decideif she and Iwere to be lovers.Under coverof darknessno one would see, you see.I bent over her, it’s the truth,and as I did,it’s the truth, I swear it,I saidlike a kindly parent:“Passion’s a precipice –so won’t you pleasemove away?Move away,please!”

You

You came –determined,because I was large,because I was roaring,but on close inspectionyou saw a mere boy.You seizedand snatched away my heartand beganto play with it –like a girl with a bouncing ball.And before this miracleevery womanwas either a lady astoundedor a maiden inquiring:“Love such a fellow?Why, he'll pounce on you!She must be a lion tamer,a girl from the zoo!”But I was triumphant.I didn’t feel it –the yoke!Oblivious with joy,I jumpedand leapt about, a bride-happy redskin,I felt so elatedand light.

Back Home

Thoughts, go your way home.Embrace,depths of the soul and the sea.In my view,it isstupidto bealways serene.My cabin is the worstof all cabins -All night above meThuds a smithy of feet.All night,stirring the ceiling’s calm,dancers stampedeto a moaning motif:“Marquita,Marquita,Marquita my darling,why won’t you,Marquita,why won’t you love me …”But whyShould marquita love me?!I haveno francs to spare.And Marquita(at the slightest wink!)for a hundred francsshe’d be brought to your room.The sum’s not large -just live for show -No,you highbrow,ruffling your matted hair,you would thrust upon hera sewing machine,in stitchesscribblingthe silk of verse.Proletariansarrive at communismfrom below -by the low way of mines,sickles,and pitchforks -But I,from poetry’s skies,plunge into communism,becausewithout itI feel no love.WhetherI’m self-exiledor sent to mamma -the steel of words corrodes,the brass of the brass tarnishes.Why,beneath foreign rains,must I soak,rot,and rust?Here I recline,having gone oversea,in my idlenessbarely movingmy machine parts.I myselffeel like a Sovietfactory,manufacturing happiness.I objectto being torn up,like a flower of the fields,after a long day’s work.I wantthe Gosplan to sweatin debate,assignning megoals a year ahead.I wanta commissarwith a decreeto lean over the thought of the age.I wantthe heart to earnits love wageat a specialist’s rate.I wantthe factory committeeto lockMy lipswhen the work is done.I wantthe pen to be on a parwith the bayonet;and Stalinto deliver his Politbureaureportsabout verse in the makingas he would about pig ironand the smelting of steel.“That’s how it is,the way it goes …We’ve attainedthe topmost level,climbing from the workers’ bunks:in the Unionof Republicsthe understanding of versenow topsthe prewar norm …”

Conversation with Comrade Lenin

Awhirl with events,packed with jobs one too many,the day slowly sinksas the night shadows fall.There are two in the room:Iand Lenin-a photographon the whiteness of wall.

The stubble slides upwardabove his lipas his mouthjerks open in speech.The tensecreases of browhold thoughtin their grip,immense browmatched by thought immense.A forest of flags,raised-up hands thick as grass...Thousands are marchingbeneath him...Transported,alight with joy,I rise from my place,eager to see him,hail him,report to him!“Comrade Lenin,I report to you -(not a dictate of office,the heart’s prompting alone)

This hellish workthat we’re out to do

will be doneand is already being done.We feed and we clotheand give light to the needy,

the quotasfor coaland for ironfulfill,but there isany amountof bleedingmuckand rubbisharound us still.

Without you,there’s manyhave got out of hand,

all the sparringand squabblingdoes one in.There’s scumin plentyhounding our land,

outside the bordersand alsowithin.

Try tocount ’emandtab ’em -it’s no go,

there’s all kinds,and they’rethick as nettles:kulaks,red tapists,and,down the row,drunkards,sectarians,lickspittles.They strut aroundproudlyas peacocks,badges and fountain pensstudding their chests.We’ll lick the lot of ’em-butto lick ’emis no easy jobat the very best.On snow-covered landsand on stubbly fields,in smoky plantsand on factory sites,with you in our hearts,Comrade Lenin,we build,we think,we breathe,we live,and we fight!”Awhirl with events,packed with jobs one too many,the day slowly sinksas the night shadows fall.There are two in the room:Iand Lenin -a photographon the whiteness of wall.

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